


and his train was the love of his people

by AwayLaughing



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Immortality, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: The Witch-King sits in Minas Morgul and the memories come to him - for all he doesn't recall anything.





	and his train was the love of his people

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



There was a king. No – once upon a time there was a king, and he carried glory on his brow and justice in his...

 

No. It couldn’t be, could it?

 

Once upon a time there was a king. A king of men. A king of kings. A nothing-king a king of the dead.

 

The wind travels through the halls, but he doesn’t feel it. He feels nothing, except the pull of _it_ and a song of something long denied. He does not feel – and he does not _feel_. No heart-song, no inner-treasure. No passion or hope or hate just...

 

Being. Eternal and unassailable. No attack from within or without – except.

 

Except. It was not always so. Once upon a time he was a king of....everything. There was wine and dancing and song.

 

Eternal song, haunting his ever step. Ever in his ear, a whisper and a demand. Unsleeping – all seeing.

 

Yes, he had been all seeing. No – all-father. Beloved and honoured and there was glory on his brow. At his right had been justice, his left beauty and in his hand...

 

In his hands were chains – his and theirs but never His. He was free and eternal and glorious and –

 

(liarliarliar)

 

– and He was awesome. Glory on His brow. His brow – on his brow?

 

Fleeting. So fleeting. Everything but him – and Him and them. Like the wind he could not feel the taste of wine and what it meant to have beauty in his grasp. No, less than wind because for a moment the wind-that-wasn’t could compete with _it_. It’s siren song – sirens. Beautiful and armed with their own song. Was his beauty a siren? No – memory did not serve so there was no use for it but he knew. The siren was not his beauty – the siren was his. His.

 

Focus shifts outward when a noise reaches him. Not the wind, and not a song. A crunch. The door opens. One who is not and is not him enters.

 

“The hunt,” one who is not says.

 

He shifts, but he does not rise. “Is not yet ready to restart.” He says. It does not gainsay him. He is king – a king among kings. His hand curls at the thought – his chain glints in the unlight.

 

It is a reminder.

 

Once upon a time there was a king who carried glory on his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You had so many interesting options here but this one really stuck out to me. I know it's not very long - it started to feel clunky and I wanted something you could enjoy! I hope you have a most excellent Hallowe'en season!
> 
> (the title, if you're wondering is the end of the opening to the story he can't recall - "once there was a king, he carried glory in his crown and justice in his hand. He was accompanied always by Beauty, and his train was the love of his people". Whether or not this was a story about him - well that's for the reader to decide)


End file.
